


Hold Tight

by theorchardofbones



Series: Moogle Match [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, ffxvrarepairsweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 01:50:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11453469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: A double bed in a tiny studio apartment; two lovers with nowhere else to be.At least... not until morning.





	Hold Tight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Rare Pairs Week 2017](ffxvrarepairsweek.tumblr.com) day 8, for the prompt 'whispers in the dark'.
> 
> Thought I'd try something different with this one, hence the brevity. I wanted a little snapshot into Gladio and Pel's relationship, when things were still good. The lack of names was an attempt at conveying the sleepy, dreamlike quality of whiling away hours in bed with somebody you love, when you just can't bring yourself to leave their side.
> 
> Set in [Moogle Match](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10932249/chapters/24319665) 'verse.

Fingertips trace over smooth muscle, over the jut of a hip. They run with a featherlight touch down the inside of a thigh, until the movement — too ticklish — forces a laugh from his lips.

‘Too much,’ he murmurs, and those fingers move elsewhere: to the topography of his ribs, to the rise of his chest where an eagle's head marks his skin.

There’s a soft little intake of breath as one of those calloused fingertips rounds his nipple, teasingly slow. When the touch moves away, he makes an indignant sound — which cuts off, shifting into a moan as a finger and thumb close around his nipple, pinching lightly.

‘You’re killing me here,’ he says, hoarse and full of need.

Strong, lithe thighs climb astride him; he resists the urge to push up against the hips above his own, as he knows too well that any impatience on his part will only make things even more infuriatingly slow.

So he’s good, for now; he’s patient, and he waits while those hands find their way, by touch, up to his jaw. They angle it upwards, the better to lay a flurry of hot, urgent kisses on his neck, on his throat.

‘How badly do you want it?’ a voice says by his ear, and the sound of those words, the little smirk that accompanies them, drives a pang of need right through him.

He’s never been good at dirty talk — not the teasing, not the responding. Why talk about what they’re doing when he can just do it? But still he plays along, lifts his head to give a desperate groan.

‘Real bad.’

There’s a chuckle, and he feels heat prickling at his cheeks, at his ears. Before he can get too self-conscious, a hand slips down, tracing a path along the planes of his torso, and closes tightly around him.

It’s not always like this — not always an hour of coaxing, of touches that start out innocent and slowly devolve into relentless teasing. Sometimes it’s the two of them slammed up against a wall, shaking too hard to do little more than tear at each other’s clothes; sometimes it’s long and slow and lazy, where it doesn’t even matter if they get there, where the journey is the fun part.

In the aftermath, he lies there, dripping in sweat with a warm body beside him. He turns his head to look out the window, at the sunset turning the sky brilliant shades of pink, of gold.

* * *

‘You hungry?’

The lips barely stir at his neck, just enough to form the words. He tries to think beyond the tangle of limbs, beyond the sheets that have enveloped him for the better part of an hour, more comfortable than he ever would have thought possible.

Come to think of it, his stomach is pretty hollow.

‘Yeah,’ he says.

There’s a sigh, long and lazy, and a hand comes to rest on his belly; fingertips brush through the dark curls of hair there. He feels need twist through him, from the tentative touch of those fingers and down, down, down.

‘Go make something, then.’

He can’t help the burst of laughter that these words elicit; can’t help but turn, wrapping an arm around those familiar shoulders and moving close, close enough to share in each other’s warmth.

‘You’re the cook,’ he says, chiding. ‘ _You_ go.’

Neither of them go, in the end. Even the allure of food isn’t enough to drag them out of bed, to disrupt the closeness.

Embraces turn to kisses to touches to moans. It’s long after dark when they stop, rolling apart stickily.

They sleep, waking at times to move, to throw each other’s limbs off and find them again when it gets too cold. As the moon rests high outside the window, illuminating the room with its glow, he lies in a haze in the blue light of it, his head propped up on his arm.

‘You’re beautiful, when you’re like that. When you think nobody’s watching.’

He had thought he was the only one awake, alone in the witching hour. Lips find their way to his neck, a cheek nestling in against his shoulder. All at once he’s glad for the company, for the breath skirting against his skin.

‘You’re full of it,’ he says, a sluggish murmur.

‘Mm.’

Maybe they’ll wake in another few hours to do it all again; maybe he won’t rush away to the Citadel as he always does, won’t slip out of the door without saying goodbye.

Maybe they’ll stay like this forever, in the pale light of the moon.


End file.
